


Mating Season

by run_sure_footed



Series: Before Kipo [1]
Category: Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts (Cartoon)
Genre: (right), Body Worship, Body-image issues, Breathplay, Childhood Friends, Choking, Cloaca, First Time, Hand Jobs, Just Business - Freeform, M/M, Mating Croaks, Non-Human Genitalia, Repressed Frogs, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25884613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/run_sure_footed/pseuds/run_sure_footed
Summary: Harris and Jamack's first time. They're both kinky in their own way.
Relationships: Harris/Jamack (Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts)
Series: Before Kipo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878325
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	Mating Season

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: We have not ‘mammalified’ the Frogs. We’re doubling down on amphibian weirdness.
> 
> A short explanation of how we envision the mechanics of them getting erections:
> 
> Frogs have cloacae, which in actual frogs is kind of like an anus/urethra/sex organ all in one. For the purpose of Mod Frogs (as opposed to frogs with a lower-case ‘f’) it’s a bit like an anal/vaginal opening with a clit/dick tucked inside at the top, which grows into an erection when they’re excited, which comes out of the cloaca and acts similar to a mammalian penis. They’re still able to be penetrated when they’re erect, the underside of the base of their erections opens into their cloaca, and they self-lubricate. Both Frogs who make sperm and Frogs who make eggs have the same bits, and it has nothing to do with their gender presentation (which is pretty much just mustaches and pocket squares). We borrowed some of this from tailed frogs, some of it from some reptile species, and some of it from, ‘Hey, this sounds more fun than amplexus.’ (Bonus fact: Their testicles are internal and attached to their kidneys!)
> 
> Frogs don’t have ears, they have [tympana](https://www.alamy.com/stock-photo-close-up-of-a-female-green-frog-rana-clamitans-eye-and-tympanum-stalking-30405868.html).
> 
> Frogs don’t have diaphragms, so they have to physically pump air into their lungs. They can also ‘hear’ with their lungs! And they don’t have ribs! Frogs are really cool!!!
> 
> Our headcanon is that Harris has a much larger field of view than the other Frogs, but he can’t move his eyes in their sockets.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

Everyone knew ‘going on patrol’ during Mating Season was bullshit, but it was a convenient excuse no one would question, out of propriety. What it _really_ meant was ‘I know I won’t get a mate, so I’m just going to pretend I’m doing something _else_ for the sake of the Pond.’

Kwat, as an egg-layer, had chosen to remain at the Pond, leaving Jamack and Harris alone.

During the day it wasn’t so bad. Maybe they snapped at each other a little more than usual, each trying to provoke a reaction, but it wasn’t _terrible_.

Nights… Nights were much worse. At night, all of Harris’ desperate, thought-crushing urges to _mate_ came to the surface. He couldn’t sit still. His legs were constantly bouncing, maybe-on-purpose jostling against Jamack’s as he drove. He stretched out his fingers, then curled them into tight fists again.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d been able to just go back to the Pond at night and go to their separate, hidden sleeping burrows, but the whole point was to get _away_ from the Pond. They took turns sleeping in shifts, one curled up in the back seat while the other drove. Neither of them slept much or well, not out in the open like this, and that didn’t help Harris’ nerves, either. Just a few more days. That was all. Just a few more days and he’d be back in his own snug little hideout. Not only that, he’d have some time off to make up for the non-stop patroling. He was going to sleep and sleep and sleep and not think about Jamack even once.

The sleeping was part of the problem, of course. Once they’d graduated from living in the Pond, adult Frogs simply _didn’t_ see each other sleeping. It was a very private, personal, and vulnerable affair. Well, maybe Frogs who were mating slept together—Harris wasn’t entirely certain about that. But he knew he didn’t like sleeping in front of Jamack, and Jamack didn’t like sleeping in front of him.

But he did like watching Jamack sleep. He’d almost gotten caught looking in the rear-view mirror a few times when Jamack’s brown eyes— _normal_ eyes, unlike his own freakish red ones—abruptly snapped open and he’d had to quickly look away.

He liked seeing Jamack vulnerable. It made him feel like he could offer his own vulnerability to Jamack in return.

Which was stupid, of course. Beyond stupid. Harris knew all too well what happened to Mod Frogs who were vulnerable, even with each other, and it wasn’t having all their perverse sexual fantasies fulfilled.

Still. He could watch. And imagine. And needle and goad Jamack, trying to get him to… What? It was such a half-formed idea, Harris wasn’t sure he could even explain it to himself, never mind to anyone else. Not that he would. Not that he _could_. But he could save up all these little images of vulnerable-Jamack to pore over later when he was alone.

At the moment, they were both awake, and neither of them was especially pleased about it. Harris wanted nothing more than to tell Jamack to pull the car over, get out, walk _far_ away, and let him sleep. Not that he could simply sleep in the car in the open, away from the Pond, but he was too tired to think entirely rationally.

They actually made a good pair for patrolling. Jamack drove, both because he was Jamack and because his binocular vision was better. With the mirrors, Harris could see around them in all directions.

It also made Jamack grumpy when Harris could see something, looking straight ahead, that Jamack couldn’t, and that was always fun.

He tapped Jamack’s shoulder, pointing. “There’s a shadow ahead, to the left.” He moved his head a little from side to side so he could get a better look at it. It might be nothing, but it might be _something_. And he was getting hungry. They’d brought some food from the Pond, but not much. They’d each been tacitly ignoring it when the other went ‘for a walk’—to hunt for a little something to supplement their diet, though of course it was very gauche to _talk_ about such things. Hopefully the shadow-caster would be something tasty. And small. And Jamack would leave.

Jamack was having similar frustrations. Mating season was tense even for Frogs who were guaranteed mates, and having barely shed his tail before last year’s mating season, he wasn’t exactly high on anyone’s list. He was just too young, he told himself, that was all. He just needed more time to make a name for himself. It wasn’t about _him_. But he desperately wanted to touch and be touched. He was tired of patrolling with Harris, but the Pond was worse. Just the _croaking_ was awful, let alone anything else. He wanted to _answer_ them! He knew just how ridiculous that was, but he also knew, after he had to disguise a half-croak as a cough, it was time to get out of there.

Harris wasn’t helping, either. He was constantly moving, bouncing, fidgeting. He bumped their knees together and Jamack had snapped at him about it more times than he could count. The little touches sent something hot through his guts and he turned it into anger rather than trying to figure out what, exactly, it was.

He hopped at the chance to get a little space from Harris. “I’ll check it out.”

Harris frowned. This was exactly what he’d been expecting. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got this. Or we should check it out together.”

Jamack ignored Harris and called to the dragonfly to stop. Most Frogs just used the brakes, but Jamack liked to use a lighter touch. The others might make fun of him for it, but he knew the insects appreciated it.

Jamack got out of the car, adjusting his tie as he walked towards the little moving shadow at the end of the street. Hopefully it was something bite-sized. A cricket mute, maybe.

It was not.

Jamack gave a shout, leaping backwards and stumbling over some debris.

A deathstalker scorpion followed him out and he scrambled to his feet.

Harris poked his head out the open car window for a better look, but Jamack and the shadow had disappeared around a corner. He quickly ran through his options in his head. If it was something dangerous enough for Jamack to yell for backup, there wouldn’t be much Harris could do about it, even with his spiked bat. He also hated leaving the car unguarded, but…

He hopped out and hit the quick-release to free the dragonfly from the car, mounting it as soon as it was unchained. He let it get a little altitude, then steered it towards the alley where Jamack had disappeared. A deathstalker had him backed against a wall. Jamack was doing his best, using his tongue to fend off its tails and claws, but Harris knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long.

Sighing, he dropped his bat on the insect’s head and yelled, “Hey!” to get Jamack’s attention and distract the scorpion. As it turned out, it was a good thing he hadn’t gone out on his own, after all.

The second of distraction was enough for Jamack to grab the dragonfly with his tongue and launch himself up to Harris, grabbing him around his skinny waist as the dragonfly rapidly flew higher, out of range. His heart was beating out of his chest and he was panting.

The dragonfly was soon a little ways above the decrepit buildings and thick greenery and hovered in place there, waiting for a command. Jamack looked down at the abandoned car and Harris’ bat. “Fuck,” he sighed.

Harris was practically twitching out of his skin at the feeling of Jamack squeezing him so tightly. He could only hope Jamack would chalk his quivering up to adrenaline from the deathstalker.

“Fuck,” he agreed. “By the way, you’re welcome. I liked that bat. Think we can make it back to the car?” More to himself he asked, “What’s a deathstalker doing here, anyway? This isn’t their territory.” He groaned. If they couldn’t somehow drive it away, back to where it belonged, they’d have to go tell the Boss. And she would _not_ like being interrupted right now.

Jamack could feel Harris twitching, could feel his heartbeat, even. It was almost as fast as his own. It took that sensation to realize just how he was holding Harris. He immediately released him, putting his hands on Harris’ shoulders where they belonged. Holding another Mod Frog like that was only appropriate if they needed help in a fight. Or they were mating.

“Let’s land on the top of that building,” he suggested. “We can wait to get the car. We can’t go back without it. And you can get your bat, too.”

The dragonfly zipped down to land and Jamack was off it and away from Harris in a second. He peered over the edge of the building. The scorpion was still there. He sighed. Hopefully it’d move off soon.

After taking a moment to compose himself, Harris joined Jamack. He sat on the edge of the roof, letting his legs dangle. It was a far enough drop that he’d die if he fell, but this was the sort of stupid stunt he was known for. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to impress Jamack. Just a little.

“At least I only see one.” Harris sighed. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?” At least no other Mod Frogs would be coming through here, so they wouldn’t get in shit for letting the deathstalker get this close, and they’d have plenty of time to take care of it on their own. He divided his attention between the scorpion and the car. Letting the deathstalker get any closer to the Pond would be bad. Letting the car get destroyed or stolen would be…worse.

Jamack shrugged, then sat next to Harris, not willing to seem anything other than confident that sitting on the edge of a crumbling building over an angry scorpion was a good idea. “At least as long as the deathstalker’s here, no one can go near the car.”

“True. But neither can we.” Harris rested his head on his hand, attention fully on the deathstalker for the moment. “I don’t remember that much about them,” he admitted, because it was a small enough thing that he could get away with it, at least in this moment, alone in the dark. “Do you? Is there anything we can do to speed this up?”

Harris crossed his legs, first right over left, then left over right, accidentally poking Jamack’s calf with the second movement. He didn’t apologize, just rolled his ankle, poking Jamack again, this time more or less on purpose.

Somehow, sitting here in the open was worse than being in the enclosed space of the car. Maybe it was the lingering memory of Jamack’s arms, so much stronger than his own, wrapped around—

No. He wasn’t going to think about that. They were just going to sit here.

At least in the car they were _moving_ , doing things. The scenery changed. Harris hated sitting still for long, especially stuck in one place.

Jamack growled, kicking him back. “Would you stop that?” He gave Harris a scathing look, up and down. As with most Mod Frogs, the way to hurt Harris was through implying that his clothing was unkempt, and Jamack immediately zeroed in on a single detail. “Your tie is untucked,” he sniped, before grabbing him by it to tighten the knot under his collar.

“It’s—” Harris’ indignant response was cut off by the sudden jerk on his neck. His whole body went rigid. He felt his lungs fill with air, puffing out his sides. Then, to his utter horror, he felt his throat pouch expand and release, letting out a croak before he could stop himself.

He quickly withdrew, resorting to smacking Jamack’s hands away. Undignified, yes, but not nearly as undignified as what he’d just done. He could only hope Jamack wouldn’t realize what had happened. Or to distract him.

He half-turned away from Jamack, still able to keep the scorpion in view, and straightened his tie. “The deathstalker is turning around,” he commented as cooly and levelly as he could, a little surprised by just _how_ calm he managed to sound.

“What the hell was that?” Jamack laughed, completely ignoring Harris’ subject change.

Harris cleared his throat. “What?” Getting caught in an obvious lie was a definite faux pas, but not nearly as bad as telling the truth, at least in this case. “Did you hear something? It’s not the car, is it?”

“You’ve never croaked like _that_ before.” Jamack was smirking, and though it was not a familiar call to him, he was pretty sure he knew what it was. Harris might be the only red eyed Frog he knew, but there were really only so many reasons to croak. And it was the season for _that_ kind of croak.

A whole swarm of possibilities rose in Jamack’s mind. He quashed them. This would need to be delicate. If Harris’ reaction was arousal, that was all well and good. Jamack could easily take control of the situation and figure out something mutually beneficial. If it had been something else, well… Jamack wasn’t going to get humiliated by suggesting something so distasteful. He’d never live it down!

With one quick grab he took Harris by the tie again, this time just tugging.

“I’m just—” Once again, Harris’ protest was cut off by Jamack. Harris felt his sides fill with air again, but this time he tensed every muscle in his body and forced it right back out again before it could inflate his throat. All that escaped was a muted squeak. “—Hungry,” he finished, feeling a little faint. Oh, he was hungry, alright, but not for anything he could have. He didn’t know exactly what little game Jamack was playing by pulling on his tie, but he was _certain_ he wasn’t after the same thing Harris wanted.

Harris started croaking again, and a wicked grin spread across Jamack's face. "Is it just the time of year for that, or do you like this in particular?" He hadn't released Harris' tie. He slid his grip up to the knot, his thumb brushing the exposed skin just above his crisp white collar. Even just that little stroke lit something in him that he had to fight to control.

“Oh, shut the fuck up!” Despite the words themselves, Harris’ voice was breathier than he wanted. “It’s that time of year for _everyone_!”

He shivered when Jamack touched his bare skin. This was unheard of, _beyond_ improper. Touching another Frog’s suit was bad enough, but their _skin_? Without a seriously good reason? He would be perfectly justified in attacking Jamack right now, and he’d face no consequences for it.

But he wouldn’t. Worse, he could see that Jamack _knew_ he wouldn’t. Because that wasn’t why he’d shivered. Well, not the only reason. Not the main one.

It...felt good.

He really had been spending too much time with Jamack. It was an open secret and source of many jokes that Jamack was...strange. He was whimsical and he went off on his own and looked at sunsets. And he wanted to be _touched_. Held. Cuddled, even. Harris couldn’t remember how he’d found out—had he seen something? Had Jamack told him when they were Froglets? He couldn’t remember. He’d always known. He’d always just brushed it off, like everyone else, as Jamack’s perversion. Harris stood out enough without drawing even more attention to himself.

But now... But now, it felt good. In a flash, he could understand why Jamack wanted it. _He_ wanted it. Not that he’d ever tell Jamack that. Combined with what Jamack had just done to him...

Quickly, before he could change his mind or hesitate, he reached out and cupped as much of Jamack’s jaw as he could in his small hand. If Jamack had something on him—and he did, whether he’d realized that yet or not—he had to strike back before he lost his advantage entirely.

For a second longer than he liked, Jamack wasn't sure what Harris was going to do. He'd frozen, those big eyes blank. When he moved again, he reached out, and Jamack nearly flinched, expecting to be struck. The touch was gentle and his breath caught in his throat, his heartbeat picking up speed. His skin felt absolutely electric, his nerves practically vibrating. It had been so long since anyone had touched him, touched his bare skin especially, and this was so deliberate.

Slowly, eyes locked with Harris’, he leaned his face into the touch, putting a hand over Harris’ almost instinctively, not wanting the contact to disappear. His other hand slid up and around, fingers brushing the side of Harris’ neck.

Fuck, he had been so sure he could keep control of this, that he could treat it like a transaction, but the second Harris offered him what he wanted he’d fallen apart! The conflicting feelings crossed his face and were gone in the blink of an eye, but Harris knew Jamack too well to be fooled by the neutral expression that followed.

There was a brief, brief moment, a razor’s edge, when Harris held Jamack’s fate in his hands and he knew it. He had the advantage. All he had to do was give Jamack what he wanted without asking for anything in return.

He stayed on the razor. “Harder,” he growled, very softly. His other hand came up to Jamack’s chest, stroking the white triangle exposed above the collar of his shirt, beneath his tie. He was very careful not to touch the tie itself. That was his own perversion, not Jamack’s. Things were confusing enough.

Harris tipped them back into safer territory. They were both getting something out of this, and neither of them would want any of this revealed to anyone else. It was for them. It was their secret.

Both of Harris’ hands were on Jamack’s skin now, and Jamack thought that would ease some of the excitement but it only seemed to tighten the coiled energy building in him. "Fuck," he cursed, but he didn't move away from Harris. He wanted more. He wanted them both naked, he wanted everything. Oh, this was bad.

His fingers wound around Harris' tie, tightening it around his throat. He could feel him breathing, struggling a little with Jamack's strong grip. He wondered how far Harris would let them go, how roughly he wanted Jamack to treat him, what other forms of abuse he might enjoy. He'd never even had an inkling that Harris might want this, but it wasn't surprising. If that got around the Pond, Harris would be ostracized. More than he was already for being a different kind of Frog.

“Fuck,” Harris agreed, just a little breathlessly. He freed some of the restless energy he’d been feeling for days and undid the top button of Jamack’s shirt. He then went completely still, worried he’d gone too far.

Jamack released Harris' tie and took a shaky breath. "We need to get somewhere a little less exposed," he said. He glanced down. The deathstalker was gone, or at least, out of sight. "Do you think the car...?"

Harris swallowed hard, taking a reluctant half-step back. He automatically adjusted his tie and suit, nodding. Jamack was right, he knew it, but that didn’t make it any easier to stop. Especially because he didn’t know if, once they parted, they’d find a moment close enough to this one to reunite, the courage to begin again.

He cleared his throat, cocking his head from side to side. “We should at least move it,” he agreed. “See if we can find something large enough for it, too, and under a little more cover.”

Jamack nodded, letting Harris pull away entirely. It made him _ache_ to let him go, but they couldn't afford to be spotted.

They climbed down to the car after making certain the deathstalker wasn't nearby. Jamack picked up Harris' bat as they passed, handing it to him and whistling for the dragonfly, hitching it to the car.

They both sat on the front of the car, not bothering to get inside. They weren't going anywhere fast, and the dragonfly could turn or stop them if need be.

“Hey, thanks!” Harris gave the bat an experimental swing once Jamack passed it to him, testing it for hidden fractures. Having it in his hands made him feel more secure, more himself. More distant, but right now he wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

They drifted in silence for a while, not looking at each other, not seeing anything that demanded their attention. Harris felt like he might just explode if he didn’t get off the fucking car right this second, but then he saw something on the edge of his field of vision, where he knew Jamack couldn’t see it without turning.

He grinned, tapping Jamack on the shoulder and pointing with his bat. “Hey. How about there?” It looked like a garage of some kind. Unusually, the overhead door was closed. And intact. “If we can get the door open, and close it behind us, and there’s nothing already in there...” It was a lot of ‘if’s, but he doubted Jamack could do much better on such short notice and in territory neither of them knew well.

Jamack nodded, uncharacteristically silent. The dragonfly guided them to the garage door and the Mod Frogs got down off the hood. Together they lifted the door, revealing a large and mostly empty garage. Jamack whistled for the dragonfly and, once the car was hidden in the garage, he untethered it again. "Go wait on the roof," he told it, trusting this particular dragonfly to not simply abandon them and head back to the Pond.

As soon as it was gone he pulled the garage door down. It was dark, but they could both still see. Jamack turned, locking eyes with Harris.

Harris shook his head, grinning. “You and that fucking dragonfly. Should I be jealous?” He immediately regretted his words—what was there to be jealous of? Nothing. Obviously. He twisted the toe of his shoe in the layer of grime on the pavement.

He swallowed hard again. Did Jamack expect them to simply pick up exactly where they’d left off? Did _he_?

Before he could question himself further, he took that taboo step forward into Jamack’s space. “Your button’s undone,” he said, barely above a whisper. He could feel his body yearning, straining to fill with air and croak again, but he forced himself to take slow, shallow breaths.

Jamack felt oddly grateful to see the same awkward hesitation in Harris. He raised his fingers to his undone button, to his tie, loosening it before starting to undo the rest of his shirt buttons. Even just revealing his own skin felt like a thrill. No Mod Frog saw another naked unless they were mates. Or in the rare case that they might be injured. It was more intense than he'd expected.

“Yeah. That’s nice.” Harris’ grin broadened. He greedily swooped in to place both hands on Jamack’s chest. He felt Jamack’s breath hitch at the touch. His own breath caught in his throat. He kept his hands still for now, just letting them rest on Jamack’s bare skin while they both adjusted to this strangeness.

Jamack’s skin was thicker than his, rougher even on his underside. He could feel Jamack’s heart racing just beneath the surface. Jamack must have sprayed on his cologne recently without Harris noticing. The musky scent cut through the background odours of ancient oil and rotting leaves. Was it only his imagination, or could he smell Jamack’s own scent beneath that? Harris was a little dry, blunting his sense of smell slightly.

He couldn’t help it. He croaked.

It was a mistake—he was doing something for Jamack when it happened, not the other way around, but he couldn’t help himself. It refused to be contained any longer.

Jamack grinned. The croak was unexpected. He hadn't even been touching Harris. Harris had been touching _him_. Harris _wanted_ to touch him. Really wanted.

His skin felt extra sensitive, practically humming with excitement. Every little movement Harris made as he touched him send a thrill up the back of his neck to the base of his skull. Excitement gathered low in his stomach and through his groin.

He shed his jacket, tie, and dress shirt, putting them carefully on the back seat of the car. He reached out for Harris, putting a hand on his hip almost delicately and pulling him closer. Before loosening Harris' tie, he gave it a sharp tug.

“Shut up,” Harris grunted, but it was hard to stay pissed off when Jamack’s whole upper body was bare. He realized, too late, that he’d been staring. He swallowed yet again. He was so thirsty. “Wow,” he managed to gasp. He shouldn’t be encouraging Jamack, really. He was already insufferably confident, but Harris couldn’t help himself, seeing something no one else—except, maybe, a medic—had ever seen.

He let out a soft moan when Jamack grabbed him. A louder one when he pulled his tie. He allowed himself to be drawn forward until their chests—his covered, Jamack’s bare—were nearly touching. He mirrored Jamack, putting a hand on the other Frog’s hip, on the bare skin just above the top of his pants. When Jamack touched him there, it was a challenge, unbearably informal. Scandalous. He didn’t move it.

When he touched Jamack... It was so much worse. So much better. He couldn’t stand it. He felt like he’d grabbed something hot, maybe even electric, and he’d have to let go soon or risk permanent damage. He didn’t. He reached out with his other hand and placed it on Jamack’s other hip. Jamack _felt_ electric now. Harris could feel him vibrating under his hands. He still didn’t pull away.

A tiny, fleeting part of his mind demanded to know what they were doing, but it was easily ignored. Mating season. He— _they_ —had an excuse.

Jamack's fingers were practically trembling as he undid the buttons down Harris' jacket, and then the white shirt beneath. He opened his shirt and—almost reverently—put both hands on Harris' skinny chest. He'd touched Harris’ hands before, briefly, but his skin here was infinitely softer, almost silky. It was as white as his throat was, so much paler than Jamack's skin.

All they were doing was touching each other's bare skin, but Jamack could feel his body reacting all too eagerly, his cloaca growing slick and his erection starting to peek out. He'd never unsheathed from his cloaca without actually touching himself before and it pressed uncomfortably against his trousers.

Harris struggled a little after he realized Jamack’s intentions, but he knew it was already too late. If he tried to stop or move away now it would only make Jamack more suspicious. Not that it would matter for long. Jamack would see his secret soon.

He ducked his head, waiting for Jamack to pull away with revulsion. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch.

Jamack hesitated. Harris looked almost afraid now. "Did I—? Did I do something?"

That startled Harris into opening his eyes. “N-No! It’s just...” He pulled his hands free of Jamack, gesturing at his sides. His sides, which were still covered by his shirt. Only his white underbelly showed. “It’s nothing.” He hunched his shoulders a little, as discreetly as he could, to close his shirt again.

Suddenly he grinned, shuffling half a step closer to Jamack. It wasn’t too late. He just had to distract Jamack. He pressed a hand to Jamack’s groin and his grin broadened. “So. Is _that_ how it is?” he teased.

Jamack let out a sharp breath, groaning as the firm pressure of Harris' hand slid over his erection. He wanted to think clearly, he wanted to figure out what Harris was thinking, what had happened to change his mood so abruptly, but the touch nearly sent him out of his mind. "Fuck," he breathed. He couldn't resist. He stepped forwards, pressing Harris back up against the car and grinding up against his skinny thigh and that curious hand. His own hands slid over Harris' soft chest again, stroking him, hands finally settling around his waist. He refused to look up at Harris, sure that his expression was all too honest and he was unwilling to let that show.

“Yeah,” Harris agreed, his voice unusually coarse and rough. Again, he allowed Jamack to move him, lifting his knee for Jamack to rut against. “We can... Do you want...more?” he asked, very tentatively. Too tentatively. He should be more assertive, make it clear that he was only doing this because it’s what Jamack wants, so he’ll get something of equal value in exchange.

He had a sinking suspicion it was too late for that little charade. But at least it was too late for _both_ of them.

Jamack nodded, focusing on his actions rather than trying to use words. Normally he could talk his way in and out of just about anything, but not this. He didn't want to put it into words. He just wanted to _feel_ it.

Grinding against Harris was not easing the discomfort of being erect and still partially dressed. It was, in fact, doing exactly the opposite.

He opened Harris' shirt, pushing his jacket and shirt off his shoulders a little.

Harris struggled, just a little and without conviction, before relaxing his body and allowing Jamack to continue.

Bright blue and yellow caught Jamack’s eye and he paused. He caressed the stripes decorating Harris' side. He'd had no idea Harris had colour like this under his clothes. It was striking, and in a way he knew Harris would hate. Harris wanted to look like the rest of the Mod Frogs, not stand out. Those big red eyes were bad enough—to most of the Mod Frogs. Jamack had never seen it that way.

Jamack bent, pressing his lips to the other Frog's side, just where the colourful stripes met the white of his underbelly.

Taken completely by surprise, Harris cried out. One of his hands grabbed at Jamack’s side while the other tried to push him away, his mind in absolute turmoil and confusion. Any second now, he was sure, Jamack would say something. Taunt him, the way he’d been expecting someone to do ever since the fucking stripes had first appeared. Not that he’d let anyone see them. Well. Not before. Apparently now he would.

Jamack ignored Harris' struggling this time, understanding his earlier reaction as shame. He tugged his jacket, shirt, and tie off entirely, putting them with his own. The blue extended down Harris’ arms, almost to his wrists, and Jamack couldn't resist letting his fingers follow the stripe of colour.

He looked up at Harris, showing him none of the disgust he’d been expecting, only arousal.

Harris made a strangled noise, unable to speak. He didn’t pull away from Jamack, but he’d gone completely still. Jamack’s hands felt so good on his skin, and he’d never imagined that someone would look at the garish colour on his sides with...desire. Hunger.

Jamack let his hands explore where the stripes led, finally stopping when his hands reached Harris' hips, where his trousers covered the rest of his skin.

"Alright, if I don't get these off I'm going to pop," Jamack muttered, stepping back just far enough to undo his button and zipper. Even that release was more comfortable. He slipped out of his shoes instead of untying them, too impatient to bother. In a few moments, he was entirely naked in front of Harris. His erection curved up towards his stomach, spreading and exposing his silky cloaca. He stepped in close to Harris again, partially because he wanted to touch him, but also in part so Harris couldn't just _look_ at him.

Looking Jamack up and down, Harris smirked. “Looks like you already have,” he observed, but he couldn’t take his eyes away from Jamack’s erection. He slid the hand he’d used to push Jamack away between them and wrapped it around Jamack. “It’s so soft,” he marvelled, giving him a slow stroke. Here Jamack’s skin felt more like his own, but much slicker. Oh, he couldn’t wait to see what he could get Jamack to do with this in his hand.

Jamack took in a shaky breath, leaning his head against Harris' chest. It was an overwhelming feeling. The pressure seemed to send currents through his body, making his breath hitch and his hands tremble. His fingers went to Harris' trousers, struggling with the button and zipper, his efforts punctured by soft gasps and full-body shivers.

“Not going to take much, huh?” Harris huffed with delight, grinning down at Jamack. He didn’t help Jamack, preferring to watch him struggle. His own erection had slipped free of his cloaca, but he could tell he wasn’t feeling quite the same raw, blind desperation as Jamack. At least without Jamack pulling his now-discarded tie. He was safe.

Momentarily giving up on removing Harris' clothes, Jamack slid one of his hands down the front of his pants and groaned as he felt Harris' erection swelling against his palm.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harris laughed. He began stroking Jamack in earnest, sliding his sticky fingers from the opening of Jamack’s cloaca to the tip of his erection. He hummed with pleasure, closing his eyes to enjoy the sensation without distraction.

He’d done this to himself before, of course, a few furtive times, but this was so very different. Jamack’s erection wasn’t quite as slippery as his own, and even here his skin was slightly rougher. He could feel Jamack’s heartbeat.

Jamack was completely overwhelmed, but he kept squeezing and stroking Harris' erection. It was even softer than his silky underbelly, and slippery, their skin gliding together smoothly. Like the rest of Harris, it was long and slender. He mimicked Harris' motions, stroking from the tip down his shaft to where his cloaca parted around his erection. At times he'd stop entirely, his body quivering, little gasps and moans drawn out of him as he fought to keep himself in check. His other arm held Harris tightly, his skin still desperate for touch.

Jamack’s hand felt incredible wrapped around him—how did it feel so much better than his own?—but it was Jamack’s ever-tightening grip on him that made him gasp and twist and moan. He hoped Jamack wouldn’t notice, that he’d attribute it to the hand on his erection.

The smell of Jamack’s cologne had faded, washed from his skin. Now he could smell Jamack’s natural scent, rich with pheromones. He leaned closer, eyes closed, drawing in air and letting the scent linger on his tongue.

Despite it all, despite how fucking _good_ it felt, Jamack wasn’t giving him what he really wanted, not now, and that meant he had the upper hand. He pressed his advantage, putting his free hand on Jamack’s back and stroking his slightly bumpy skin.

Harris' moan sent a thrill through Jamack, as did the hand wandering over his back. He'd moved into Jamack's hand, welcoming the stroke, but even then it was awkward to touch Harris when he was still partially dressed. He reluctantly removed his hands from Harris and released him. "Get your pants off." Admittedly, he was also curious to see how far down the stripes and bright-blue colouring went.

Harris’ eyes snapped open, wide with horror, when he realized he was still partially dressed. He pulled off his now-slippery pants with distaste and almost no hesitation. Jamack hadn’t been repulsed by the vibrant colour he’d seen so far, and what was below was only more of the same.

He tossed his trousers aside. He’d have to give them a good wash before they were wearable again, never mind acceptable to be seen in by any other Mod Frogs. He knew he shouldn’t, perhaps, have obeyed Jamack’s ‘order’ so readily, but it lined up with what he wanted to do, anyway.

He stayed just a step back, staring at Jamack with something close to defiance. If he laughed now, Harris was gone, and he’d still have the advantage.

Jamack looked up at Harris' challenging expression and smirked. He stayed where he was for a moment, savouring the sight of Harris, naked and aroused in front of him. The stripes ended at his hips, but the blue continued down his thighs to his ankles, and there was a brilliant orange peeking out from his inner thighs. His erection was the same bright blue and Jamack could see how slick and excited he was. Where his cloaca spread around his erection, there was the barest hint of orange hidden inside. He wondered if Harris even knew that colour was there.

Jamack had had a minute to recover his senses, and he wanted to keep that control. When he stepped close enough to touch, he wrapped one arm around Harris’ skinny waist and the other hand slid around his neck, squeezing.

Harris went wild, the powerful muscles in his legs expanding and contracting almost painfully beneath his skin. He wasn’t sure if he was considering jumping away or if he was dying.

In any case, Jamack’s hand around his neck was the best thing he’d ever felt. After a few frantic moments, he went perfectly limp, supported only by Jamack’s hands. Worse, his hand stilled on Jamack’s erection, effectively destroying any advantage he might have had.

Jamack's grin was slow and wicked as he looked up at Harris, meeting his dark-red eyes. "You really like that, huh?" He let his fingers play along the pulsepoint of his throat, pressing on his jaw to encourage him to tip his head back.

Harris had stopped stoking him and Jamack’s erection throbbed with need, but he didn't want to stop. He was pressed close enough that he could feel Harris' arousal twitching against his stomach, feel the wet excitement sticking to his skin. He thrust his hips slowly to rut against the taller Frog’s thigh.

Embarrassed, Harris tried to look away, but he couldn’t without moving his whole head. And he couldn’t because of Jamack’s grip on his throat. He let his eyes unfocus so he wouldn’t have to be looking directly at Jamack. He didn’t answer, at least not out loud, but he knew he didn’t need to. His body’s response was more than answer enough. Finally, he remembered he could simply _close_ his eyes, blocking Jamack out entirely. He could still hear Jamack quietly snickering to himself, but there was nothing he could do about that. His arms hung limp and useless at his side. Raising them would take more energy than he had. His legs had also gone loose and wobbly, and most of his weight was supported only on the tips of his toes and by Jamack’s hand.

Harris slumped, his rather insubstantial weight hanging limp by the grip on his throat. Jamack couldn’t stop grinning. Seeing Harris like this was a heady experience.

Jamack stroked his other hand up and down Harris’ back, holding them close. Even there, his skin was so soft. He couldn’t stop thrusting up against Harris’ thigh, though the amount of slick dripping down his leg was getting a little embarrassing. He just couldn’t fathom not feeling that smooth skin rubbing against his erection right now.

He experimented with the tightness of his grip. Harris’ eyes were unfocused, his muscles relaxed, but if Jamack released slightly he would gasp and shudder, head tilting back further as though asking for more. When Jamack squeezed even tighter, Harris’ erection twitched against Jamack’s stomach, a little more slick smearing across Jamack’s much-thicker skin with every subsequent squeeze. He released him carefully, supporting him with the arm around his waist. He didn’t want to leave marks. Harris’ throat was so pale, and Jamack knew from experience that he bruised easily. “You alright?” he murmured, watching Harris’ expression closely for any sign of distress.

Opening his eyes, Harris nodded almost dreamily. He was grinning broadly, slumped against Jamack’s arm and bent backwards a little. “Please,” he gasped, just that one word. He wished, distantly, that even that hadn’t escaped him, but he couldn’t help himself. He was full of want—of _need_. His skin was hungry, eager to touch and be touched. He managed to straighten with some difficulty, rubbing his erection against Jamack and crying out at the almost overwhelming sensations that rolled through his whole body. He could feel his pulse hammering in his neck where Jamack’s hand had been. “Please,” he said again, even more softly. He’d worried that he might sound a little hoarse, but his voice seemed uneffected.

Jamack was so gratified by that expression, by the soft pleas, it was very nearly overwhelming. He kept Harris upright with the support around his waist, and focused entirely on choking him. He wanted more. He wanted _more_ , but maybe even before that he wanted _Harris_ to want more. This was satisfying Harris in a way Jamack could never have imagined, and privately Jamack could admit that having Harris at his mercy like this wasn’t really about power or control, it was about desire. And if Harris knew that, ever found that out, Jamack would be entirely vulnerable if Harris decided he wasn’t happy with the give-and-take of their new sexual relationship.

Fingers tight over Harris’ pulsepoint, Jamack could feel him starting to collapse even further, his long legs giving out. Harris was already pressed against the car. All Jamack had to do was release his neck, grab him under the thighs and lift him up onto the hood of the car, so his back was against the windshield. Jamack nudged apart his thighs, kneeling between them. Again, there was a tiny moment of hesitation as soon as he’d pulled away, but seeing Harris lying naked on the hood of the car with his legs spread, he couldn’t stop himself from moving in close, pressing their erections together, one hand braced against the windshield and the other squeezing around his neck.

Very distantly, as though it was happening to someone else, as though someone else was doing it, Harris reached between them and wrapped a sticky hand around both of their erections. Other than that he was completely flat on his back, limp and boneless. He felt very vulnerable and very helpless. Normally, that feeling would have his spiked bat in his hands, looking for some skulls to crush for making him feel that way, but here, with Jamack crouched above him almost protectively—which was odd, considering Jamack’s hand was also around his neck—it didn’t feel bad. It felt…good. He liked feeling a little vulnerable, a little out of control, beneath someone he trusted. It wasn’t just the hand around his throat. It was _Jamack’s_ hand around his throat.

Not that he’d ever admit that out loud to anyone, but he could at least admit it to himself in the privacy of his head. One of the advantages of having immobile eyes was that they were less expressive than most Mod Frogs’, and his mouth was already slightly parted. No, he didn’t think even Jamack—who, he could reluctantly admit, probably knew him better than anyone alive, except maybe Kwat—could interpret his expression. As far as Jamack knew, he was enjoying what Jamack was doing purely for his own pleasure, and as far as Harris _wanted_ to know, Jamack was doing the same.

He tightened his grip on their erections and felt Jamack’s fingers tighten around his neck in response, a beautiful push and pull. Slowly, experimentally, he stroked his hand up and down, from the point where their erections sprang from their cloacas to their wet tips.

Jamack let out a soft cry as Harris stroked them. Every time he increased the pressure around his throat, he could feel him react. He felt him tremble, arch up under him, felt Harris’ hand stroke them both more excitedly. “Fuck,” he gasped. He ground his hips down against Harris’, sliding in and out of his hand as though he was fucking it. Harris’ touch was so different from his own, with the stickiness of his orange hands, and though they were both slick enough that his fingers were sliding over their erections, there was still more friction than Jamack would have felt if he’d been stroking himself. It was _so much better_.

“Fuck,” Harris agreed softly, far more softly than he usually spoke. Jamack’s hand was so tight that he could hardly gasp even the single word, but he didn’t want him to let go. Not ever. Or at least not yet. “Close,” he grunted. “Close?” He slid his thumb across the tip of Jamack’s erection, still stroking them both slowly and firmly.

Jamack nodded. “Close,” he agreed, watching Harris’ eyes unfocus again, his beautiful gold-patterned second eyelids closing over his red eyes. Harris felt so good, everywhere they touched. But he wanted more, wanted to press himself against Harris, _in_ Harris. He didn’t think he should push further than he already had, not this time, no matter how much he wanted to. Even if there was a fear in him that this might be the last time he’d ever have the opportunity. He might not last long enough anyway, with the way that trembling pleasure was building in him, spreading from his core to every part of him.

Harris felt Jamack’s hand loosen, just for an instant and he drew in a gasping, heaving breath before scowling at Jamack. He couldn’t find any reason for him to let go, but he could easily watch thoughts scrolling across Jamack’s face, the way he always could. It was a very un-Mod Froggish trait that had gotten Jamack into trouble before. He suspected Jamack’s hand had loosened because of one of them. He was close, so close that it almost hurt him, but he forced his hand to loosen around them. “Harder,” he growled, meeting Jamack’s eyes steadily now.

Jamack groaned, nodding again, fingers tightening, feeling Harris’ pulse thumping hard against his thumb. The second Harris squeezed them again, their slick erections sliding through the tight opening of his hand, Jamack shuddered and came, spilling over Harris’ pale stomach. He kept his hand clenched, not wanting to let go, to disappoint. He wouldn’t let go until Harris came.

Determined to last at least a few seconds longer, Harris closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He could still see Jamack, and he realized he’d accidentally closed his third eyelid rather than his main ones. He could still see Jamack’s enraptured expression, and the secret knowledge that _he_ was the one doing this to Jamack, bringing him to this state of utter abandon and pleasure, tipped him over the edge. He came liberally across both of them, drawing in heady breaths between Jamack’s fingers. Jamack’s hand had tightened as he came, which seemed to force Harris’ orgasm longer and longer. He’d never cum this much. He’d never cum like this. He’d never _felt_ like this, and he had a brief moment of utterly irrational jealousy at the thought of anyone else doing this to Jamack, with Jamack. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, and that having another Mod Frog choke _him_ would feel just as good, but he couldn’t even convince himself.

Jamack waited until Harris finished, his body bowing and trembling as he came in a few long spurts, before relaxing his grip. He stroked his fingers over the red fingerprints he’d left. Hopefully they wouldn’t bruise. They were probably low enough for Harris’ collar to cover them if they did, but he knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it.

He lowered himself onto Harris now, one arm sliding under him, the other resting against his colourful side. He knew he was likely just making more of a mess of them, but he felt limp and drained of energy, and he wanted skin on skin so badly it ached.

Harris flopped flat on his back, arms limp. One was around Jamack’s middle, but he didn’t have the strength to pull it back. Or the desire.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course you want to _cuddle_ ,” he teased, but without any heat behind his words. He sounded too fond, but he didn’t care. He didn’t move. He didn’t _want_ to move, despite what he’d said. Let Jamack think he was only doing it for Jamack’s sake and not at all for his own.

Jamack was quiet, not sure what to say now that the moment was over. Would this ever happen again? Would things change between him and Harris? And if they did, would it be better or worse? He kept his face pressed to Harris’ chest, keeping it hidden, knowing Harris could read him too well to hide any of his thoughts if Harris saw his expression.


End file.
